


teen love

by wincestgoddess



Series: ABC's of... [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, POV Alternating, Self-Discovery, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenchesters, teencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:35:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27241288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestgoddess/pseuds/wincestgoddess
Summary: Fireworks set it off but it was July that started it all .This is the journey Sam and Dean embark on; exploring their teenage years, their journey to self-discovery and maybe even true love.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: ABC's of... [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956697
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	teen love

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Jld71 for being my beta and thank you DeansBonnieSammysClyde for giving me feedback and helping me find inspiration when I was stuck ❤

**Amy**

‘Hey Dean... how do you talk to girls?’

The words ricocheted in his brain. The echo was still whispering in his ear by the time Amy handed him a cold ice soda and soon those words tangled with his brother’s advice

Up close, Amy was even prettier. Sam noticed that her eyes were hazel, akin to his but with deeper tints of brown. 

More importantly, she  _ understood.  _ Both of them freaks, both trapped, both wanting to run away. Break free and live a normal life. 

Finding out she was a monster should’ve been the deterrent. And it did spark his undying sense of loyalty. 

That’s what Sam told himself. Told himself that that’s why he didn’t feel the pull, the connection.

It certainly couldn’t be because when he looked into her hazel eyes, he was expecting green ones. 

It wasn’t because her legs weren’t bowlegged and her smile wasn’t a characteristic, devil-may-care smirk. 

No. Amy was a creature of darkness, one of the things they killed. 

In a turn of events, she spared Sam’s life. Let him run back and straight into the Impala. 

He didn’t tell Dad what happened. 

Later that night, Dean asked him if he’d talked to that girl he’d asked about. 

Their gazes locked. Green eyes. 

Sam’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.

“Couldn’t do it. Maybe next time.”

**Body**

Cataloguing Dean’s body. He’s done it countless times.

Sam always thought it was aimless, it didn’t mean anything. 

He was an early riser and Dean was right there, right next to him. Sometimes too close, depending on whether they had to share a bed last night.

So he’d stare. He’d wait for Dean to wake up and just...stare, let his eyes drink in the sight of a sleeping, relaxed Dean.

The voice that whispered into his ear to reach out, to touch, that wasn’t Sam’s.

It was something locked away deep inside of him, something dark and wrong,  _ wrong, wrong. _

Dean didn’t sleep in the same position all the time. It seemed this was one of the few aspects of life where he let himself be messy and not rigorous. 

Come morning, more often than not, he ended up in a starfish position. Arms spread in the tiny bed, sometimes nudging Sam. His legs would be spread, too. 

Truly, Dean hogged the bed but Sam found himself not caring. 

Not when he could see the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, the rosy nipples, perky from the AC. His brother slept in nothing but boxers during the summer. 

Sam could take his time and really study the features he knew so well. The dip of his hip bones and the strong thighs that lead down, and down to the very soles of his feet. 

Sam could study the long lashes and pink, open lips. He’d been tempted once or twice to attempt to count the freckles, then realized that was way too creepy. 

He could see the tented boxers. 

And that’s usually when Sam’s brain caught up with him, when the feeling of wrongness washed over him, stronger than ever before. 

He’d done this countless times. But only now did he realize that the voice whispering impure things into his ear; it wasn’t a demon, it wasn’t an unknown darkness.

It was all Sam. 

**Cooking**

Dean would never admit it. In fact, he often grumbled about having to do it. Sam suspected it was for show. John never paid attention to it. 

Dean  _ knew  _ Sam was right. Because as much as he hadn’t liked it in the beginning. He’d grown fond of cooking. 

And boy did he have to cook. Experimenting was often necessary as well. He’d lost count of how many concoctions he’d created with just hot dog buns and mac and cheese. 

Sam had been the unfortunate recipient of many of those. 

Still, he had mastered it after a while, even learned to make homemade pizza. 

He saved the true delicacies for special occasions. 

Sammy’s birthday was at the top of his list. His own though? Well, that was tricky. 

Dean didn’t… think it was a big deal. But obviously Sam disagreed. 

And so when he came back from buying groceries, after his brother had insisted they were missing peanut butter and ‘how am I gonna make a banana peanut butter sandwich now, Dean?’, that Dean caught him.

“I’ve… watched you make it lots of times, I don’t know what I did wrong,” Sam admitted with a slump of his shoulders after the first few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

Dean’s eyes trailed down, where an attempt at homemade pizza had been made. It was mostly burnt around the edges and there was flour everywhere on the counter. 

He then took in all the other details he’d missed at first glance. The open fridge where he could spy a store bought pie. Cherry, if he had to guess. The newspaper wrapped lump that lay on the sofa and next to that, a DVD of Die Hard. 

John had wished him a brief ‘happy birthday’ that morning before taking off for the hunt. 

‘Take care of Sammy.’

But Sammy had taken care of him this time, Dean realized. Something odd, something he didn’t often feel spread throughout his body, starting at the center of his chest and taking over his entire body.

Sam was watching him, warily now. Probably thinking Dean would brush it off, would want to postpone this little celebration his brother had planned for his birthday. 

Instead, Dean stripped off his leather jacket and rolled up his sleeves. 

“Alright. If we’re gonna have pizza, we’re gonna have the best one. C’mere. I’ll show you.”

The smile he got in return ignited that warmth he’d learned to associate with Sam. It awakened something else, too. Something Dean never liked lingering on. 

With a shake of his head, Dean stepped up next to his brother and ignored the loud sound of his beating heart when Sam’s side brushed his. 

**Drive**

The open road had always been more of a home to them than four walls. 

Shady motels were always temporary but the Impala, taking them anywhere they wanted to go? That was permanent. Only constant in life the boys had known. 

Once upon a time Dean had known PB&J’s with the crusts cut off. He’d known lullabies and baseball games with his dad. 

Those days were gone. But he gained Sam’s grateful smiles in return; the purr of the Impala and the trust John now put in him. It wasn’t perfect, but Dean learned to adapt.

This lifestyle wasn’t so bad, either. Well, Dean liked it. There was a certain peace in knowing he was getting rid of evil in this world. He knew Sam didn’t quite feel the same. 

All in all, Dean was content with his life. 

Didn’t mean he didn’t need a break from cleaning shotguns and watching reruns of the same old shitty TV show cooped up in the room they rented. 

Feeling slightly stifled, he’d grabbed a six-pack, grabbed the car keys and grabbed Sam (okay maybe that one had been more of asking his little brother if he’d wanted to go out for a ride). 

Thus how Dean Winchester found himself driving down the lane, heading nowhere specific in this boring town, a cold beer in his hand, music blaring through the stereo and Sam by his side. 

Breathing in the fresh air from the rolled down window, Dean instinctively slapped Sam’s hand away when he tried to change the station, not once taking his eyes off from the road.

“Jerk!”

“Bitch.” 

A grumble was his only answer and Dean laughed, carefree and relaxed for the first time that day. 

The peaceful silence that had settled was only broken by Sam’s snicker and his incredulous stare when he looked around where Dean suddenly parked. 

“A lake? Really?”

“Not like this town has much else. Besides, it’s quiet here. I like it,” the older Winchester shrugged as he got out of the car and took a seat on the hood of his girl. 

Sam joined him soon after, reached for a beer and rolled his eyes at Dean’s warning gaze. 

Don’t overdo it. Message received. 

“It is pretty peaceful here,” Sam admitted, features softening into a serene smile, looking out at the body of water facing them. 

The quiet whistle of birds and tranquil flow of water were the only sounds nature provided. Every now and then a gulp from one of the brothers, the uncapping of a bottle and the hiss of the beer. 

At some point, Dean couldn’t tell when, his gaze traveled from the lake, to the side, to where Sam was leaning against the hood a bit more now, eyes closed and shirt riding up just a bit. Just enough to show off a tiny sliver of skin. 

The usual pang of uselessness hit. Sam looked so happy right here, right now. Dean  _ wished  _ he could make Sam feel at peace more often, that their lives didn’t make him as antsy as it did. 

He wasn’t overtaken by those emotions; had been dealing with them all his life. No, it was the stirring in his belly that did it. The feeling of being so intricately connected to another human being that the fraternal emotions were starting to blur. 

It was happening more often, too. Because Dean could claim he didn’t know exactly when, but he did know that at some point he’d started looking at Sam with more than just brotherly eyes. 

And it hurt. This  _ longing.  _ This new need to let his hand linger, to let his lips just… just lean a little bit further down from his brother’s forehead and---

Sam’s eyes snapped open. Feeling the weight of Dean’s stare, he turned, caught his gaze and smiled. Easy and trusting. 

“What you looking at?”

Words caught in Dean’s throat. 

“Nothing. Don’t fall asleep over there,” he cleared his throat. “Gotta be back before midnight.”

“Then we still have time,” Sam grinned and Dean couldn’t help but match it.

He finished his beer in one gulp and hoped that would freeze his train of thought. 

**Enamored**

It wasn’t uncommon for girls to swoon over Dean. Guys, too. 

Even teachers sometimes seemed enraptured by his charming personality. 

Dean was suave and all style; he was cocky smirks but also wide, sincere smiles that took Sam’s breath away, one of the few people who that smile was reserved for. 

Dean was spiky blondish hair, more brown at the roots; he was emerald eyes, a shade so alluring and beautiful no one else could compare. 

Dean was passion and resilience, righteous anger and downright fury when faced with someone who dared hurt Sam. 

He was talented, okay? Dean may not think he had the brains, but Sam knew better. Knew that if the Impala broke down in the middle of the road, his brother would fix it in a second. Knew that he wasn’t as good at research, so he made up for it training. 

Dean was out of everyone’s league. Especially Sam’s. Who was he next to the older boy? 

The sun. That’s who Sam was to Dean. The sun and stars and moon all mixed in one. 

Dean wasn’t good with words, but he was sure if there was someone worth writing a poem for, it would be his brother. And Sam would appreciate it too, the nerd. 

But that was just it, Sam wasn’t just a nerd. He was seriously,  _ ridiculously  _ smart. The boy was witty retorts and literary references Dean had no hope of understanding.

Sam was bright and sunshine smiles, eager and inquisitive gazes. He was dimples that never failed to make Dean’s heart soar. 

His little brother, the one who he’d tucked in at night and saved up just to buy him popsicles during the summer.

The same boy who’d grown up, who was now skin beginning to tan and legs that could go on for miles. Silky, smooth hair that no matter how much Dean teased him, he loved running his fingers through it. 

Loved breathing in his shampoo. 

Sam was stubborn. He could lash out and hurt in indescribable ways when he wanted. But he could also heal and love, and put him back together on his worst days. 

Sam was salvation; and Dean… Dean was drowning. 

Who was Dean next to this bright-eyed boy? 

**Fireworks**

The realization yet denial of buried feelings was not enough to keep them apart.

Magnets that they are, they gravitate and constantly feel the pull toward each other. 

Pesky feelings were never going to get in the way of that. 

And so they find themselves in a memory from past times, recreated once more, now with extra precautions taken to avoid last year’s disaster. 

“We did not burn down that field!” Dean protested.

“You were smashed and wanted to light more fireworks!” Sam laughed, swiping the beer away from Dean, his fourth one tonight. 

Pouting, Dean bumped his shoulder against Sam’s but left the beer alone, already feeling pleasantly tipsy. Not drunk, not smashed. Just enough to make him feel warm. 

Sam’s side brushing against his as his brother scooted closer greatly contributed to that feeling, as well. 

Colors erupted before their very own eyes; a blending of blues, reds and oranges. Sparkling lights and one or two shapes up in the sky, all for them. 

The stars left in the aftermath seemed to shine just for the two of them.

“We should do this every year,” Sam’s soft voice didn’t break Dean out of his trance, if anything it seemed to lull him in deeper.

“Like a tradition?” 

“Our very own. No Dad. Just us,” 

Him and Sammy. Sounded nice. 

Chancing a glance to the boy in question, Dean took a moment to really look. Sam was still staring up at the sky in slight awe, hazel orbs tracking shiny dots and remnants of gunpowder.

Maybe it was Dean’s alcohol muddled brain that was associating such sappy words like  _ beautiful and breathtaking  _ with Sam. Maybe it was the moon reflected on his eyes or the smile playing at his lips. 

Sam’s lips. They looked shinier now, softer. Dean briefly wondered if he’d still taste of the Sprite he had minutes ago. 

Sam turned his head then, directed that same smile at Dean. And Dean? Dean fell into it, fell into the goddamn trap.

Lips pressed against lips. Unresponsive lips. Though not for long as they soon started moving against his own, opening up to him, sighing into his mouth and both boys couldn’t help but feel those feelings of wrongness be washed away by how  _ right  _ it felt. 

How they seamlessly molded together. These weren’t two puzzle pieces finally fitting, this was coming home. 

This was the first domino of many that would fall. 

This first kiss was nothing if not  _ liberating.  _

**Guilt**

16 years ago, a fragile, wriggly bundle had been placed in Dean’s awaiting arms. 

16 years ago, he’d looked into hazel eyes for the very first time and had fallen in love. 

16 years ago, Dean Winchester had looked into blue eyes, so expressive like his own, and had sworn to Mary Winchester that he’d be the best big brother in the whole wide world. That he’d always protect Sammy.

He had broken that promise. Shattered it beyond repair.

Because this? These feelings? That---god, that  _ kiss?  _

That wasn’t protection, that wasn’t pure and safe. 

It was corruption; it was wrong and so evil, Dean could feel the poisonous roots in his bones. 

He’d had one job. One fucking job and he’d failed. Not only had he failed, he’d gone and acted upon his impulses. 

Just one kiss. One swipe of tongue, one brush of lips, one taste of flesh was all it took for Dean’s demons to unleash. 

They craved more of it. More closeness and more touches. More Sam. 

One week since they’d kissed. 

One week since Dean had been able to look into his brother’s eyes and hold his gaze. 

One week since they truly talked; beyond asking for a ride to school or asking about Dad. 

None of it was on Sam, and Dean didn’t blame him for a damn thing. 

God, if it didn’t kill him to turn away from his pleading eyes. He knew Sam wanted to talk. Damn kid was always more in touch with his feelings and shit. 

But Dean  _ couldn’t.  _

Not when he had fallen so greatly.

Not when at night he dreamed of his mom burning. 

Burning and blaming him for corrupting his little brother.

‘You promised, Dean.’

Fire engulfed him every time. 

And every single time, he woke up with a choked scream trapped in his throat and his lips tasting ashes. 

**Hero**

Sam’s childhood hadn’t been happy, not by normal standards anyway.

While average kids had fond memories of birthday parties with a cake and presents; Sam remembered several twinkies adorned with a candle and one epic attempt at actually baking. No presents, either. But always a token, always a little something just for him.

Kids in his classroom recounted pool parties and hanging out with friends. Sam would stay in his seat and distantly recall drives to cornfields and pigging out in the backseat of Dad’s car.

Sam never forgot Dean’s efforts. Because he  _ knew,  _ okay?

Once upon a time he might’ve been selfish and stubborn and bratty, but he’d grown and he knew. 

Knew it was Dean who talked John into letting them stay another two weeks in Oregon so Sam wouldn’t miss his soccer Division Championship. He knew the brand new sneakers came out of Dean’s pocket, too. 

It was Dean who found a home for the dirty puppy Sam had found in a diner’s parking lot; after gently explaining to a brokenhearted 6 year old kid why they couldn’t keep him.

It was Dean, as much as his brother would love to deny it, who read him stories when he was little, who tucked him in, who let him into his bed when he had nightmares. 

So Sam might’ve not had the luxuries, the commodities and the standard experiences every kid ought to have once in their lifetimes.

But he’d had Dean. He’d been cared for and loved, and now Sam realized, that that truly outweighed everything else.

Growing up, Dean had been his hero. 

The big brother Sam looked up to. He’d studied him, he’d copied him, tried to be just like him. 

These feelings never changed. 

However, they did evolve. That admiration and awe transformed into something deeper, something akin to  _ devotion.  _

It wasn’t a mere physical issue. Sure, Sam was a teenage boy and like them all, he had… needs, okay? 

It wasn’t about that, though. Sam was a hormonal ball of angst, sure. But he was also smart enough to recognize that his love for Dean went much, much deeper.

And that kiss while fireworks rained down on them? Knowing Dean felt the same? 

That mere action had thrown Sam a lifesaver, saved him from where he’d been drowning in a sea of darkness. 

Sam was ready to face what he felt. He didn’t want to take long showers anymore, scrub at his own skin in disgust as if that way he could be cleansed.

Sam wanted happiness, wanted to share it with the green-eyed boy that never stopped being his hero. 

The question here was… did Dean want it too? 

**Irrevocably**

Dean’s heart had never questioned it. 

The immediate bond, the connection, the  _ love  _ tethering him to Sam was never doubted.

But it did change, and Dean couldn’t control it. 

He’d first realized something was different when Sam turned 15. 

There had been a growth spurt here and there, some shedding of baby fat but nothing major had happened. 

So why had Dean’s heart raced when he tagged along to one of Sam’s classmate’s pool parties that summer? 

Why did his palms get sweaty when Sam dived into the pool, only to come back out all wet and dripping? 

And why did his breath catch when that dimpled smile had turned on him? 

Dean’s mind shut down. He wouldn’t call it a breakdown but something pretty damn close.

Still, that had been all in his head. His rational thinking; his conscious ability to tell right from wrong. 

Hadn’t been his heart. That son of a bitch hadn’t panicked, it hadn’t gone into overdrive with fear and terror at the possible what-if’s. 

Maybe because deep down, Dean’s heart held all the answers and it  _ knew _ this was always how it was meant to be. 

A love so fierce, a love so strong, it would inevitably turn into more.

A love so  _ dirty. _

No. Dean’s treacherous body might have urges but his love was pure.

Because Sammy was pure.

A week had passed since the fireworks.

A week with these same thoughts circling him like vultures. 

Feelings so intense could not change, could not be reversed.

Sam’s fingerprints weren’t just imprinted in his heart, they reached his very soul.

Since birth, destiny had bound them. 

Something that could not be broken. Never to change. 

**July**

The last week of July brought with it a heatwave.

John, the lucky bastard, was in a much colder state severing  a  monster’s head off.

Not Sam and Dean. They were stuck here.

Shitty motel, shitty AC. Nowhere to go that wouldn’t grant them the same scorching treatment.

Lounging around in that tiny bedroom, only one bed included, hadn’t been at the top of either boys’ plan.

Especially not after what had happened.

Winchesters played with the cards they were dealt.

Conversation wasn’t attempted, and the idea of small talk not even entertained.

Both brothers were so deeply immersed in their own inner conflicts and thoughts to even try. 

The younger Winchester tried to resign himself to the fact things could never go back to the way they were, or what might’ve been a better outcome, go further .

Dean, however, was past his breaking point.

Dad would kill them if he found out.

It’s wrong. It’s corrupted and dirty, it’s  _ incest. _

He’d be ruining Sam’s life, dragging him down with him.

All valid reasons to let it die, all reasons why his heart should stop. 

And yet, his yearning would coil around his neck like a snake, whisper in his ear.

Don’t they both deserve more? Deserve happiness? 

If they find it in each other, what is so wrong about that? 

Dean was only a man, and a selfish one at that. Only exception had always been his brother. 

But if his brother desired the same, wanted him in ways they shouldn’t want, wasn’t Dean hurting him by denying him this?

Scratch that, he knew he was. Had been on the receiving end of sad, pleading gazes the entire week. Had witnessed the quick wiping of eyes that indicated tears. 

Last week of July brought with it a sweltering sun and no chance of rain. Little kids begging their moms for ice cream and irresponsible outings to the communal pool in hopes of freshening up. 

Last week of July brought with it doubts, sadness and one very important realization. 

It brought Dean Winchester right here, to approach Sam where he’d been lounging on the couch, waited for him to notice his presence and open his eyes, and leaned in.

Second kiss. 

Fireworks set it off but it was July that started it all . 

**Kissing**

Winchesters have pretty good self-restraint.

It’s a requirement for the life they lead. 

Patience, control, composure. 

All very important qualities. 

But give Sam a taste of normalcy and he’ll crave for more.

Give Dean tales of Mary and he’ll seek out memories he’d long ago buried.

Give the great John Winchester the bonding he’s never had with his sons and even he would crumble under the question that sometimes at night, haunts him: is the path to vengeance worth it?

Give soulmates what they’ve been missing their entire lives and they’ll chase after it.

Not being able to touch for so long, Sam now relished in the power he held.

The willingness of Dean’s lips that opened up to him. 

The hands that simultaneously grounded him, kept him in the moment and still lifted him up higher.

Didn’t take much for the boys to become addicted.

Lack of oxygen didn’t seem to matter, they kissed like they were starving, like they wanted to fuse together.

They kissed with a purpose beyond touch. To be closer, to  _ feel  _ all of each other because they had been depriving themselves for so long and now that they could touch? 

Nothing could pull them back apart.

Not whispers or swirling thoughts; not nightmares or the echoes of long forgotten souls. 

Careful, sweet kisses were precious. Ones where Dean would cup Sam’s face, would thread his fingers through his hair and cradle him close. Those kisses where Sam would melt.

Quick pecks before school were a reminder of what they now had, what they’d begun and what Dean had finally let himself have. They were the highlight of Sam’s day. 

Passionate, brain-melting kisses were growing in intensity the more they broke free. Desire mounted in waves and neither boy was oblivious to the raw need thrumming through their veins.

But kisses after hunts, those after one of them got injured or hurt, or nearly died; those were the ones that broke them. 

Those kisses nurtured their souls, soothed their endless chanting, one that had been deeply ignored by them for what felt like ages. Soulmates weren’t meant to ignore one another. Soulmates were meant to prosper together, feed off each other and in that become whole again. 

Life-affirming kisses sparked something inside them. Something deeper, something that seemed far older and sacred and undistinguishable to them yet. 

All these were different kinds of kisses, all given now without remorse.

Sam soaked in every single one. 

  
  


**Linger**

John Winchester was a very observant man.

Both of his sons were aware of this fact.

That posed a problem.

The problem being, kissing, or touching when John was actually  _ there  _ ended up being, well, for lack of a better term, tricky.

And it wasn’t like Dean wasn’t a master at sneaking behind the old man’s back. He had learned from the best, after all.

Yet he had more to learn, as John’s sixth sense seemed to be forever alert. 

Dean would’ve feared for the safety of his own mind because as soon as he imagined kissing soft lips, John would look at him.

Look at him like he knew. He had to be imagining things. Jesus, when did he become so paranoid?

Safe to say, he’d been feeling on edge the last couple of days.

Sam had to be feeling it, too. 

Except, if he was, the lanky boy was hiding it extremely well.

Propped up against a pillow, the boy in question was reading, apparently engrossed in whatever science fiction story he had for the week.

No, that wasn’t Dean’s issue here.

Sam was using one of Dean’s shirts. A hand-me down that had always been too big on him. Loose. 

And that was it.

All he was wearing. So when Sam crossed one leg over the other on the bed, the oversized shirt would slide down, would expose the boy’s whole leg and a peek of his underwear.

To add salt to the wound, Sam was also snacking on Dean’s bag of sour gummy worms. 

He would suck off the sugar first, the little freak, then wrap pink lips around it in a way that Dean never thought would be so…  _ erotic. _

As soon as John’s eyes were focused on the newspaper looking for another case, Sam would look up, meet Dean’s eyes and smile. Tantalizing, teasing and smug. 

Little brothers were dangerous. Little brothers were long legs and flushed lips, they’re breathless whispers and insistent pecks. 

They’re sin incarnated. 

Dean’s eyes would stray. 

Dean’s eyes would trace. Ants under his skin threatened to burst with the itch to touch. 

Sam reached for another gummy worm. 

If Dean’s hand lingered when Sammy offered him some, he only hoped John would chalk it up to some brotherly bullshit. 

**Make out**

Dean knew this body.

He changed this kid’s diapers and gave him a bath back when he was an impatient toddler.

He got to explore it all over again in different, better ways he’d never deemed possible.

Soft exhales and the wet press of lips; the creaky bed whining under the weight of two bodies. 

Curious hands pushed off Dean’s leather jacket while he guided his own to grab a firm hold of hips, tugging Sammy closer and into his lap. 

He’d popped a cassette earlier, wanted to make out to the voice of Dennis DeYoung. 

Sam had been unimpressed. Unrelenting too, the little bitch. 

After wasting time arguing, time which could’ve been better spent making out, in Dean’s humble opinion, they’d settled on Bon Jovi. 

Everyone knew Bon Jovi rocked. On occasion. 

Besides, apart from ambience, lyrics didn’t really matter. The singer’s voice wasn’t as important as Sam’s content sighs and the soft little gasps that had Dean’s blood rushing south.

Exploration was key. 

Now Sam would learn that Dean hated having his ears touched, or even worse, tugged on with teeth. Now he’d know which sore spots to avoid. 

He would also find out that if his thumbs brushed his brother’s nipples through his shirt, just ever so slightly, it would get him the most amazing full body shiver in return. 

Sensitive nipples. Sam would have to store that information in his brain for later. His mind was already running wild with possibilities. 

But this was a give and take; and Dean would also learn that if his lips brushed over the spot where neck meets shoulder it got him a soft sigh in return, but if he set his teeth to the skin, Sam would make the prettiest sounds for him and his hips would inevitably buck up. 

Dean learned Sam was a kinky fucker, too. 

Even in the most basic of make out sessions, starting slow and steady with soft kisses and wandering hands, even then Sam would seek more. 

Little nips, tugging on Dean’s lower lip with his teeth until the flesh was tender and flushed. His fingertips would dig into the skin, leaving prints behind. 

And the marks. Sam liked being marked. 

He  _ liked  _ when Dean left a collar of hickeys down his jaw, down in places he could mostly cover, since they didn’t want John on their asses. 

Dean was the experienced one here, he was the teacher. 

Sammy still managed to reduce him to a panting mess with just lips and teasing fingers. 

Whoever said making out was overrated? 

**Nice**

Stacy Ringwald was the most beautiful girl of Sherman High. 

With long auburn hair and gorgeous honey eyes often framed by eyeliner that simply worked to accentuate them, she was in every boy’s mind. 

Fairly tall as well; which quite honestly sometimes worked against her as she often had to shoot down guys that were a whole foot shorter than her. 

She wasn’t the stereotypical bitchy yet beautiful girl, either. She was genuinely nice. 

Still, most guys in school could never hold her attention for long. 

Until Dean Winchester, that is.

There was no other term that fit him better than dreamy. 

The ideal height, too. 

She’d bet she could easily reach him with just a tilt up of her head to kiss him. 

Approaching him wasn’t hard at all. Dean was already starting to hang out within her circle, talking to her friends and soon enough, talking to her as well. 

He seemed to have a natural flirtatious smirk. A certain charm, too. 

She thought she’d had it in the bag. 

However, while her flirty banter had been welcomed, her advances had been gently yet firmly rebuffed. 

‘I’m with someone,’ he’d said. 

Disappointment set low in her gut, her pretty smile falling upon receiving the news. 

But she didn’t have it in her to act bitchy. He’d never truly led her on, hadn’t toyed with her. Had never returned the small yet suggestive touches. 

“Does she go to our school?” 

Dean smirked, shook his head. 

“Nah. You don’t know her.”   


Maybe that was better. She wasn’t a bitch, but she wasn’t perfect and jealousy was perfectly normal to experience, especially after a romantic disappointment.

They parted in good terms, although she did admit to him with a small self-deprecating chuckle that she might avoid him for the next couple of days at lunch. 

It didn’t take long for a brunette to take her previous spot, humming noncommittally, having witnessed the end of their conversation. 

“Stacey Ringwald? Heard she’s nice,” an eyebrow raised.

“Yep, she is,” Dean grinned, reached out and discretely pressed down on a mark covered by the cotton of a shirt. 

“Told her I’m already with someone, though. Real firecracker, too.”

“Good,” Sam smiled, slow and easy and pleased. 

Their fingers laced and they walked back to the Impala and away from Sherman High. 

**Odor**

When Sam turned twelve he started being more vocal. 

Started sulking and asking why they had to stay in shitty motels, always eat greasy diner food and why did he have to share a bed with his brother most of the time. 

Toddler Sam had loved sharing a bed. Would pout and even cry on the rare occasions John got them two seperate beds. 

More often than not, Dean let him quietly slip in his own bed. Especially when he had nightmares.

12 year old Sam was exactly that, 12 years of pent up anxiety and cabin fever syndrome; wanting his own space and more importantly, his own damn bed.

14 year old Sam was hesitant to share his bed. Although his reasons had changed.

No longer he felt he would burst out of his own skin if Dean’s leg brushed his during the night. No, now he knew the touch would awaken a very different reaction in him.  Something he hadn't been prepared to deal with. 

Staying true to a typical teenage boy, Sam fluctuated between wanting to get the hell away from Dean come nighttime or wanting so badly to reach out and touch, claiming he couldn’t control his body during sleep. 

16 year old Sam no longer had complaints. He didn’t have any of that pent up anticipation, either. Because now he  _ knew  _ he could touch; and he wouldn’t have to make up any excuses.

This happier version of Sam could roll over come morning, let his lips seek an exposed patch of neck and trailed feather light kisses down the expansion of skin until the figure next to him let out a sleepy little hum of content.

He had the freedom now to use Dean’s pillow once his brother inevitably got up to make breakfast, inhaled the scent that was so distinctly Dean. A hint of spice and just one ounce of sweetness. 

Rides in the Impala and late night stories; arms wrapped around his frame and pranks during the summer. That’s what Dean’s scent reminded him of. 

It’s safety, protection and a caring touch all at once. It is now more than that. It’s still home; it’s still safe. But now it’s Dean’s body fresh out of the shower and a heady musk making Sam’s head spin.

Lust personified. 

And okay, so Dean might’ve noticed Sam had a bit of a thing for smelling him too. But really, he didn’t really mind , so , why call him out on it?

Certainly didn’t mind when Sam reached for his leather jackets once he'd discarded it and wrapped himself up in it, taking a deep whiff and sighing softly. 

Or when he nuzzles his neck, lets his lips trail in such a tantalizing way over his pulse point; and just before he could set his teeth on it, he’d bury his nose, breathe in and finally made his mark. 

Dean had no complaints at all when Sam shared his pillow that night. 

**Paletas**

Chicago has a rich Latino culture. 

There are neighborhoods known all over town for their hand painted murals representing the heritage; authentic taquerias on almost every corner and a steady flow of Spanish from people who refuse to forget their roots.

Little Village is one of said neighborhoods. There’s an arch that welcomes people to the neighborhood, Mexican flags proudly displayed. When nearing November, the flags change to sugar skulls to commemorate Día de Muertos. 

It is also where John struck a deal with a middle-aged Mexican man. The man was the owner of one of the most popular taquerias of the neighborhood but to make extra money on the side, he rented a two bedroom apartment. 

‘Mostly to shady gringos looking for a place to stay for a few weeks,’ he’d told John, smirked knowingly and had taken the cash. 

Rumors of a chupacabra were abound in the hunter community and Dean was eager. He’d never actually  _ seen  _ one

Which is of course why he got stuck with the research while John went out to interview witnesses and had all the fun. 

Grumbling, he flipped another page on the book of urban legends of Chicago he was browsing. 

“Dean.”

His eyes scanned over the words quickly, never lingering too long on any of them unless they had that one word he was looking for

“Dean.”

Dean fought against the corners of his lips which threatened to twitch at that whiny tone creeping in the voice.

“De.”

Slamming the book shut, Dean faked a sigh and turned to face Sam, eyebrow raised.

De would bring his walls crumbling down, would work in any given situation and Sam knew it, the little minx. 

“I know what’ll cheer you up.”

Dean’s slight smile transformed into a smirk; he leaned forward in the chair and opened his mouth but a pillow hit him square across the face before he could voice his thoughts.

“Not that, asswipe.”

Dean huffed, threw the pillow back at his smartass little brother. “Then what?”

Sam smiled criptically and held up one finger, the universal signal of ‘wait and see’.

Not a minute after, the telltale song of the popsicle vendor roaming their street in his little cart filled the silence of the apartment. 

“Really, Sam? Popsicles?”

“They’re called paletas here. We’re in a latino neighborhood, Dean. Learn some Spanish,” Sam teased, unfolded his legs from under his butt where he’d been sitting on the bed and sauntered over to Dean. Clad in only shorts and an inside shirt, Sammy was all sweat and Dean’s very own cherry pie in this moment

“C’mon,” long arms wrapped around Dean’s neck from behind, a kiss was pressed to his ear. 

“It’s hot today. I really want a coconut one,” sweet as syrup, that velvety tone washed over Dean, made him feel tingly and slightly out of breath.

“...Fine. But I’m getting chocolate.”

A soft huff was breathed in his ear. “Whatever. Don’t ask me for a taste of mine, jerk.”

“I’ll just steal a bite if I want to, bitch.”

“Or you could just taste it from my lips,” Sam shrugged, unwrapped his arms and started heading to the door, not before taking one look over his shoulder and giving Dean a coy little smile.

And while the creamy chocolate or refreshing coconut didn’t quite soothe Dean’s wounds at once again being relegated to research, Sam’s cool lips and the clash of his warm tongue did make things a little brighter that day. 

**Queer**

Sam had found out he was in love with his brother the same year he realized he wasn’t straight.

That same year he’d tried to convince himself he was at least bi. Amy had to count, right?

But whilst girls often kept disappearing to the back of his mind, their magnetism dwindling, it was Dylan Prescott, a boy around Dean’s age that awakened that flame. 

He wasn’t an idiot, it didn’t take long for Sam to figure out that although he had a type (green eyes, blondish hair, bowlegged legs, older than him), all of them were guys. 

By the time he’d fully admitted to himself he was gay, it truly didn’t matter. Sexual orientation didn’t matter when the only one you wanted was your brother.

He’d felt aimless for a long time after that, somehow disconnected from that integral part of himself. 

Sam and Dean were together now and god, just reminding himself his wildest fantasy and apparently unattainable dream had come true was enough to have the youngest Winchester smiling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

It gave Sam the chance to focus; no longer dealing with secret desires at night and whispers in his dreams. 

It gave him the courage to sign up for the Gay-Straight Alliance at his new school. After, all, Dad had said this hunt was gonna take a while and Sam wanted to learn, okay? 

He wanted to immerse himself and discover more about who he truly was. 

He hadn’t anticipated Dean’s reaction, however. 

“Why the fuck you got a rainbow pin on your bag?”

“I joined the GSA at school.”

“The what now?”

With a roll of his eyes, Sam snatched his duffle bag back and away from Dean’s curious hands. 

“Gay-Straight Alliance. They give you a pin when you sign up.” 

Dean narrowed his eyes, seemed to be processing for a second, then glanced at the damn pin as if the inanimate object was to blame for it all.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

A blank stare was his only response.

“Sam, we’re in Fucksville, Mississippi.”

“Clarksdale.”

“Whatever. Look, it’s still a hillbilly town full of homophobic jerks. They have a dress code at your school but you’re telling me they’re also waving rainbow flags now?”

Sam shrugged, rummaged through his stuff until he found the pamphlet Mrs. Richie had given him and handed it to Dean.

“New teacher, new transfer student. They both come from big cities. Wanna make a difference. They’ve actually got a solid group so far.”

“Only thing they’re gonna get is fired and expelled.” 

“Dean…”

Sighing, Dean stopped eyeing the pamphlet, chucking it away without much thought, much to Sam’s dismay. Instead, he took a seat on the bed next to his little brother.

“Town’s full of assholes. Just… don’t make yourself a target, please.”

“I can take care of myself,” 

“Yeah well, if you come back with a black eye I’ll definitely take care of whoever did it . ” Dean’s smirk matched Sam’s now. Thumbing the boy’s lower lip, Dean looked into his eyes.

Not a threat but a promise. 

One that, as Dean found out the next day, he had to fulfill.

He’d been right. Town was full of homophobic pricks, especially in Sam’s grade. No, what had truly surprised Dean was the ferocity that Sam used to defend his posture and his peers at the GSA. 

The kid wasn’t backing down, wasn’t letting himself be intimidated by some bigot and Dean was  _ damn  _ proud. 

So no, he didn’t take care of the prick. They both did. And once said asshole had had his ass thoroughly kicked and had been verbally humiliated, courtesy of his sharp-witted brother, Dean had turned to the teacher in charge.

“I’ll take a rainbow pin too, thanks.”

**Rock**

Sam liked to think they’d left Clarksdale, Mississippi a better place.

Sam had gained quite the reputation around school after the showdown and Dean, well, his brother had his very own fanclub, especially from struggling gay kids who couldn’t  believe such a manly, badass guy could be bi. 

Dragging his eyes away from the rearview mirror as they pulled away from town, Sam smiled when he saw Dean and the outline of the rainbow pin hidden by his jacket. 

He’d worn it in silent support today as he picked Sam up from his last GSA meeting. 

“Gonna be a long ride to California.”

Sam hummed his agreement. 

“Good thing we have music,” Dean popped in a Black Sabbath cassette and Sam grimaced.

“Seriously? Dude, I’ve heard this one probably over ten times already.”

“So? Classic rock, Sammy, my boy. Nothing like it,” giving his brother an annoying smile, Dean started belting along the first lines of the song.

“Could we at least listen to something I like for a change?”

“Driver picks the music, shotgun---hey!” 

Before Dean could protest, Sam had ejected the tape and reached for one of his own. 

Of course Dean’s car was his domain, so Sam only had three or four of his own cassettes in here. 

“There,” Sam leaned back in his seat, pleased as the first few notes of slow drums and keyboard filled the space.

“Still classic rock but it’s different,” the youngest Winchester said.

“This isn’t rock, man. This is a ballad!” 

“Foreigner is a rock band, Dean,” Sam informed him calmly, fingers tapping to the rhythm. “You should know, you’re the expert.”

And Dean would’ve kept bitching, he  _ would’ve _ , okay? But then Sam had to go ahead, turn that bright smile on him, looking so relaxed and carefree so much  _ freer  _ than Dean had ever seen him.

His brother seemed to shine and Dean was 98% sure it wasn’t the sun playing tricks on him. Sam was glowing; a new air of confidence surrounding him. 

Perhaps it had been that LGBT whatever alliance, maybe it was the fact that his green-eyed boy no longer simply owned his heart, but that now, Sam owned the green-eyed boy’s heart too.

_ I wanna know what love is _

_ I want you to show me _

_ I wanna feel what love is _

_ I know you can show me _

“If we’re going ballads, we’re going REO Speedwagon next.”

Sam laughed, rolled down the window and closed his eyes for just a second, basking in the sun caressing his face and the wind tousling his hair.

“Yeah, okay. But I want more Bon Jovi.”

Their eyes met then and they shared a private smile and neither boy would admit it out loud, but they both felt that pleasing flutter of lovestruck butterflies.

“Deal.”

In the next chorus of the song, Dean kept one hand on the wheel.

The other reached for Sam’s.

**Seashells**

August is the hottest month of the year in California. Some would argue it’s the perfect month to hit up the sunny beaches. 

Some know better. The sun is relentless upon the poor souls who want to spend the day at the beach, and more often than not, suffer some form of insolation. Nighttime takes pity and the weather is a little cooler yet the humidity in the air is there to stay.

August in California is also smog season and the air quality is pretty bad. Not to mention the huge crowds of tourists falling right into the trap that is the alluring month of August.

Sam and Dean think September is a pretty nice alternative.

It marks the beginning of autumn and the temperature doesn’t go beyond 90 degrees. Still sunny enough to enjoy the sandy beaches and not have to worry about dehydration.

Mary liked the beach. She took John there once. 

Thus, the older hunter avoided the little trip Sam and Dean planned, claiming tiredness after a too-close call with a ghoul.

Neither boy kicked up a fuss, both secretly glad this outing was all for themselves.

Sam was especially eager to see the effect the sun had on his brother’s freckles.

He might’ve or might’ve not switched Dean’s sunblock lotion for suntan. Nothing too extreme, just enough to give him a golden hue. 

Staying cooped up hadn’t done Dean’s skin any good. Sam was just looking out for him.

Also looking forward to tracing the hopefully more noticeable freckles with his tongue, but that was just an extra.

“What are you doing?” 

Dean’s relaxed drawl pulled Sam out of his musings. He was lying on the towel they laid across the sand, on his back, arms crossed behind his head and sporting a pair of cheap sunglasses. 

Clad in only navy blue swim shorts that had a red stripes pattern and shirtless, of course, Dean Winchester was a sight to behold. 

Sam let his eyes roam freely, and maybe a little lustfully over the scarred, tough body that’s shielded him his whole life. A body that’s now all his. 

“I can feel you staring,” Dean smirked, pushed his sunglasses down an inch and met Sam’s gaze with a raised brow. “Haven’t answered my question, Sammy.”

Hands cupped together, Sam approached their little makeshift spot and knelt beside Dean, carefully placing his collection upon the towel to show him.

“I like this one,” Sam commented, pointing to a soft brown ladder horn snail seashell. Quite big for its type, too. 

“We have the ocean all for ourselves and you’re collecting seashells? Jesus, you’re a dork.”

“And here I was considering giving you the prettiest one.”

Dean huffed and critically looked over Sam’s collection so far. “The white one?”

“...Yeah, actually.”

“Don’t look at me like that, I have good taste.”

Sam smiled fondly, gently brushed the seashells aside, took extra care with the white scallop one and cupped the nape of Dean’s neck, pulling him until their lips met. 

Dean opened up easily under him, always did now. No more resistance, no more fear. 

“You’re the prettiest thing here,” the words were murmured against Sam’s lips, drew a decidedly unmanly giggle from him but right here, right now, he did not give a single fuck. 

The beach was wide and vast, and here Sam and Dean could be anything. 

“Let’s swim.”

Sam’s request, in such a low voice, dripped over Dean like honey and he was helpless under this spell to do anything but nod and follow after his brother. 

Kisses in the ocean were saltier but just as sweet. 

**Taken**

California’s a large state. One of the most populous states of America, too.

More people always means more monsters. More monsters mean more cases.

On a Wednesday evening, while the two older Winchesters are having a beer and Sam is finishing up an essay, John deemed it safe to assume they’d be hanging here for a while. 

Unfortunately, Sam and Dean couldn’t afford more spontaneous trips to the beach.

Sam still made sure they basked in the sun long so Dean wouldn’t lose his tan. 

Freckles were cherished during cool nights, under the blankets and engulfed in complete darkness. Sam would take great care of tracing each and every one of them with his tongue. 

He let his teeth scrape over the ones scattered across Dean’s lower back. Conditioned to Sam’s touch, Dean’s back would arch every time, his lips would let loose a breathy sigh, like a damn pavlovian response. 

Sam got a bit more tanned, as well. Dean’s very own caramel boy let his hair grow longer in California, too.

Truth be told, Sam fit in right away. He thrived under the liberal state. Felt less stifling than some of the southern states they’d stayed at. 

His Sammy, his quiet bookworm that was barely controlled resentment under Dad’s orders; the boy who was witty comebacks and pages of knowledge; that Sammy flourished  under the right conditions. 

And in California, with Dean by his side and kisses in public, that’s where he was at his best.

Ironically, that’s where Dean reached his worst.

Sam’s radiance wasn’t lost on others. Especially not classmates who got to see it up close. 

The appreciation from afar was harmless; only truly served to raise Dean’s hackles.

No, it was the older boys checking his brother out that was not okay with Dean. It was the too casual way in which Sam told him one of them had tried to ask him out but he shot him down.

It was the edge in Sam’s tone when the guy kept pushing, when he kept asking, even going so far as cornering him after all.

It was the wicked glint in the icy blue eyes of the guy and the hand wrapped around Sam’s wrist, the way in which he leaned closer even as Sam recoiled. 

It was the most primal instinct in Dean. 

Leaving the Impala, Dean thanked whoever was up there that John left him in charge of anything related to Sam’s school. 

The way their father was less involved and therefore did not know that to Sam’s classmates, Sam didn’t have a brother. He never made it clear who the older boy picking him up was.

Dean made sure to set the record straight that day. He made sure everyone knew Sam didn’t have a brother, he had a boyfriend in California. He made it especially clear to blue eyes.

And in that moment, Dean exuded pure possessiveness; no one dared go against him. 

No more watching Sam from afar, no more asking him out and absolutely no more touches that the boy obviously didn’t want. 

Such an outspoken gesture was rewarded with a heated kiss as soon as they made it back to the apartment. It certainly worked to disperse Dean’s doubts and stray thoughts. 

Sam  _ liked  _ when Dean was possessive. Sam loved being marked as much as he loved marking Dean, and although the four walls around them provided privacy, Dean’s next statement, whispered into a panting mouth, was one the whole world should know by now. 

“You’re mine, Sammy.”

**Unkempt**

Dean started to develop a soft spot for ballads. Sung by rock bands, of course, but ballads nonetheless.

He started to associate certain songs with very specific images of Sam.

Stairway To Heaven was now his favorite by far.

It was to this power ballad, that Dean loomed above a disheveled Sammy, his little brother panting already for their impromptu make out session. 

The lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold was witness to the gentle hands that stripped Sam of his clothing, gentle hands that caressed his sides and roamed down slowly. 

The sign on the wall was the only audience of Sammy’s sweet moans, Dean’s grunts and the sound of slick skin sliding; the first brush of parts so intimate that from that second on, both boys knew they couldn’t go back.

It was the piper that failed to lead Sam and Dean to reason, it was him who had to watch Sam stop Dean in a strained whisper. 

“I want more. I want you.”

And it was the lady who now got to see as Dean caved. Perched atop the side table, needle smoothly running, she got to watch Sam’s legs wrap around Dean’s waist.

She heard the wet sound of their kissing and Sam’s hurt little gasp that soon gave way to pleasured cries. 

She watched Dean’s back tense and his ass clench and his hands cup the face of the only lover under his body that ever really mattered. 

This was sacred.

Stairway To Heaven held both Dean and Sam’s most precious memory. 

One they would not forget for years to come. Perhaps not ever. 

It wasn’t even being sappy about it. It was more complex than that.

Because for so long, for the majority of their lives, they’d both felt deeply ashamed, disgusted of this, of  _ them.  _ Treated a love that was simply so meant to be as an extension of their inner darkness. 

Treated it like a plague.

This is where they truly became one. This was the moment Dean knew he could never give this up. This was the moment Sam realized, he’d been missing this his entire life. 

And in the aftermath where kisses rained down Sam’s sweaty forehead and strong arms gathered him closer to a firm chest, their bodies still joined; the lady had to lean forward but she still caught the whisper, the confession of love. 

She didn’t have to wait for her song to be over to hear the same words echo from the hazel-eyed boy. 

**Vineyard**

They were supposed to be scouting the terrain. That was the mission John sent them on.

He thinks they’re looking for a shifter. 

One that apparently likes to chase their victims in California vineyards. 

Dean was still hopeful it was actually a pagan god. The god of grapes or something, Sam zoned out after his brother’s painfully inaccurate rant of polytheism and their gods.

For once in his life, Sam didn’t much mind his job. Not if it allowed them to be roaming freely through acres upon acres of one of California’s biggest wine vineyards. 

What surprised him was Dean. His brother was usually so diligent. 

“We’re not supposed to take those.” 

Popping his fifth grape of the day in his mouth, Dean shrugged carelessly and handed one to Sam.

“Don’t make me feed you,” green eyes threatened when Sam didn’t make a move to take it.

“Maybe I want you to.”

“So, you want me to feed you grapes and be your sex slave? Why Sammy, I don’t know how to feel.”

“The sex slave part was all you, Dean.”

“Then again, doesn’t sound like the worst job in the world, maybe I’ll accept.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Seeing no reason to contradict him, especially not when his antics never failed to bring a smile to Sam’s face, Dean tugged on the boy’s hand instead and led him away.

He led Sam to a slightly more secluded spot he’d found inside the vineyard. One where they could comfortably plop down on the grass and relax.

“Still think it’s not a shifter?”

“I have hope.”

“Dean,” Sam elbowed him slightly, smiled at the chuckle his brother emitted.

“Doesn’t fit a shifter’s description,” the words were said slowly yet surely. Sure in their assessment but hesitant to go against the word of a more experienced hunter. Against Dad.

Sam reached once more for Dean’s hand and squeezed gently.

“You should tell Dad.”

Green eyes stared right ahead, losing themselves in the grass, bearing an almost exact replica of their color. They landed on a bee buzzing around before planting itself on a nearby flower. 

Sam didn’t push.

Eventually, shoulders were rolled back and his back straightened. 

Sam’s hand was his anchor but his words were his wind, lifting him higher than ever.

And Sam had always admired that about Dean. Always in awe of his brother’s confidence, his expertise and his refusal to back down. Always protective, always secure.

This was a bigger step and Sam understood. More than that, he was happy to lean back and watch Dean slide comfortably into his skin, happy to help Dean stand for what he believed in. Happy to watch years of tension start to heal.

“I’ll tell him when we get back.”

A grateful squeeze wasn’t Sam’s only reward. It was also the view.

Feeling as liberated as Sam did now, Dean directed that gorgeous smile at him and Sam’s heart skipped a beat. His brother was beautiful like this. 

**Winter**

“We couldn’t just stay in California for the winter.”

Sam grabbed another thick blanket on his way to the couch and draped it over Dean’s shoulders, ignoring his grumbling and promptly plopping down on the couch, head resting on the blanket that covered Dean’s lap.

“You do know California gets snow too, right?”

Emerald eyes flickered down to his face, a frown of slight confusion yet the purse of lips too stubborn to admit they’re wrong marring his complexion.

“Shut up, it doesn’t. It’s like… the sunny state. Sun all the time.”

Huffing a chuckle, Sam angled his body so it was turned toward his brother, nose rubbing against the material of Dean’s sweater. 

“You smell good.”

“Yeah?” Gentle fingers ran through Sam’s hair, nails scratching at the boy’s scalp every now and then, behind his ear and at the base of his neck.

Each sigh of pleasure made Dean smile fondly. 

“Like cinnamon,” Sam answered drowsily, eyes at half - mast.

Dean, however, did not agree with the sentiment.

“Fuck you, Sam. I smell like a man, not goddamn cinnamon.”

“S’not a bad thing, De,” Sam chuckled again, nosing Dean’s stomach purposely now before turning to lay on his back, staring up at the object of his affection.

“We should make cinnamon cookies.”

“Oh great, snowed in for less than a day and you’re spouting nonsense already.”

Sam pinched Dean’s side, hard enough to get a hiss of surprise but not enough to hurt. 

“We’re not snowed in, idiot.”

“Freaking Wisconsin, we might as well be.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam straightened up and pushed himself off of Dean’s lap. “You’re such a grump.”

Just as he was starting to get up though, a hand tugged him back by his wrist, then arms enveloped him in a warm embrace, not warmer than the lips that breathed into his ear though.

“Tell you what,” the whisper was almost enough to draw a shiver from Sam, “you make hot chocolate and I’ll work on the cookies,” it was the kiss that did it instead. “Deal?”

“Will you make a snowman with me later?” Sam countered, willingly baring his neck for the teeth that directed him to.

“Hot chocolate, Sammy. Then we’ll see.”

Dean’s words were emphasized with a nip and a growl.

They didn’t get to making cookies and hot chocolate until much later, after far more important cravings had been fulfilled.

Full and sated, it was easy to fall asleep to the lullaby of the snowstorm. 

Sam would use Dean’s scarf on his snowman tomorrow. They had time after all.

**Xerophyte**

**_xerophyte: a plant which needs very little water_ **

It was a fact in the Winchester household (wherever that might be at the moment) that Dean Winchester didn’t do chick flick moments.

Dean Winchester was awkward and uncomfortable in the face of affection, or anything crossing the line over to emotional territory.

He didn’t know how to handle such gestures.

Would much rather prefer he and his dad call it a night and have a beer than some father-son bonding talk.

He’d take making out with girls over listening to their sappy musings any day.

He was there to save the victim and be the hero, not listen to their tragic backstory and counsel them. 

4 year old Dean Winchester had had that affection ripped away from him. 

Suddenly faced with a dead mother, a crying baby brother and an emotionally distant father, he hadn’t had much hugs growing up.

Forehead kisses waking up were replaced with sticky notes informing him of John’s whereabouts.

Mommy’s hugs were replaced with a terse pat on the shoulder every now and then. 

Dad letting him in their bed after a nightmare was switched with Dean joining Sammy in his crib. 

The baby would reach out with clumsy hands, wrap his little fingers around one of Dean’s and blink up at him with hazel eyes.

No, Dean Winchester wouldn’t call himself an affectionate person.

Except Sam knew better. Sam always knew better. And he could always not only see through his walls, but break them down and worm his way inside.

Sam  _ noticed  _ that Dean would lean into the touch when he cupped his brother’s cheek. He would close his eyes and instantly relax. All that had been taking a toll on him that day, it just melted away.

Sam put up with the complaints and the grumbles but he also saw the achingly soft expression and the  _ yearning  _ in green eyes when Sam hugged him.

He saw Dean’s hands clench after John pulled away from a hug after a close call. 

Always let go of Dean too soon.

_ Touch-starved. _

The words hit too close to home. 

Sam knew it was probably a mechanism. A front.

Dean had to grow up like this, he’d had to adapt to his conditions and those of everyone around him. He’d had to take it in stride rather than shrink.

But Dean deserved so much more, too. 

And if Dean knew his intentions; if he knew why Sam always lingered after a hug, or how he preferred cupping his face now before they kissed, even if he knew, he wouldn’t complain.

No words were truly needed from either of them. There was no discussion to be had. 

Being with Dean helped Sam gain confidence, break him from his chains.

Being with Sam helped Dean find comfort, love, an affection he’d thought lost years ago. 

With Sam, Dean would never shrink again. 

**Yemen**

Sam dropped the bomb on him during a Sunday night.

There had been no hints throughout the day that would’ve made Dean suspect Sam was gonna say those five words. 

Jeopardy had been on and as it’s tradition (except not really, but Dean liked to pretend sometimes that they had some sort of routine) both boys were spread out on the couch watching the show.

Taking advantage of John’s absence, Sam was cuddled up close to his brother, head laying on his chest.

Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Dean had been too busy admiring the flesh Sam was abusing to pay any attention to whatever Alex Trebek was saying.

It wasn’t until the youngest Winchester let his lower lip go with a wet sound, that he said it.

“We should go to Yemen.”

As soon as naughty thoughts of Sam’s pink mouth had dissipated, Dean’s brain had blanked.

“Uh… what?”

“Yemen,” the shrug was too normal, the tone was too casual.

“O-kay, what brought this on?”

“Thought it’d be nice.”

“...You’re the smart one, Sammy. You do know Yemen’s in the Middle East, right? Probably under war or something.”

Sam averted his gaze, looked down where he’d been playing with a loose thread on Dean’s jeans. 

“Better than here.”

At that, Dean’s teasing smile faltered, a frown taking its place instead. 

He knew Sam well enough not to push though, and simply waited for his brother to keep talking.

“I mean… away from Dad,”

Sam’s voice dropped to a quieter tone and with it, so did Dean’s heart.

He couldn’t even feign to feel surprised. Not when he knew things had been bad for a while now.

Not when his eyes had sparked with murderous rage the second John gripped Sam’s wrist too tightly after his brother had disobeyed an order.

Gentle fingers stroked over the bruise the man had left and Sam took that as a sign to cuddle further into a protective chest.

Dean still hadn’t spoken and it was beginning to worry him, heart beating wildly against his ribcage, hard enough to be painful.

Vulnerable and tired, Sam let his shoulders slump, resignation starting to rear its ugly head.

Why would Dean run away with him and leave John behind? The man was his idol.

Sam was… he wasn’t above that, and he had no delusions of fooling himself.

Perhaps sensing the storm brewing inside his head, Dean tipped Sam’s head up, a hand gripping his chin gently.

Misty eyes stared right back at green ones, but they didn’t find any sort of conflict there.

Just sadness, but behind that layer, there was also determination.

“Why not Fiji instead? Dad would never think to look for us there.”

His beating heart slowed down, sought the immediate warmth that Dean’s words provided for it, and the bruise on his wrist seemed to stop aching.

The one tear that slipped past Sam’s cheek was brushed away softly, with lips soon pressing to the skin instead, before they eventually made their way to his lips.

“Anywhere,” Dean breathed the answer to the unspoken question that hung in the air.

“I’d go anywhere with you, Sammy.”

**Zen**

“I thought Dad had a rule.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” Dean grunted under the weight of their absurdly full cooler, sparing his brother a set of narrowed eyes for not helping.

Sam smiled sweetly back at him and swung his legs over the Impala’s hood.

“Never stay in the same town twice.”

“Yeah, well,” wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow, Dean exhaled and reached for an ice-cold beer.

“Can’t have innocents dying, Sammy. It’s a risk he’s willing to take.”

Humming, Sam stretched one hand expectantly and Dean rolled his eyes before handing him his sprite. 

Inside, Baby was stock full of sour gummy worms, and enough candy to satisfy Dean’s sweet tooth.

Meanwhile the cooler was helpful enough in providing them with beer, soda and popsicles for later. 

No grape ones anymore since their lips felt weirdly tingly when they kissed after having that flavour, and not in a fun way.

“Can’t believe  _ this  _ is the town we came back to, though.”

Grinning brightly, Dean couldn’t help but mirror that smile in a softer way. 

This was the field that Dean didn’t have the chance to burn down, but it’s where he did gather the courage to kiss Sam for the first time.

This was where he experienced nightmares of Mary burning and blaming him all over again. 

This was where he doubted himself, doubted his feelings for his baby brother were pure and not tainted.

And this was where he made a choice; one that several months later, he couldn’t, for the life of him, bring himself to regret.

A foot tapped his.

“Feeling nostalgic?”

Sam’s tone was fond more than teasing, and the tilt of his lips was proof enough that Dean wasn’t the only one reminiscing on the day that brought them together.

“I guess,” was the cryptic answer the older brother delivered, taking a long pull from his beer.

Staring ahead, eyes flicking up at the sky for just a second, Sam’s smile faltered a bit and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

No matter how much they’d both grown, sometimes, they would still doubt themselves, doubt that what they had was strong enough and cherished enough.

“Do you regret it?”

Thankfully, every time any of them reached this kind of low, whenever they were trapped once again by their inner demons and pulled into the pit of darkness they climbed out of so long ago; the other was there to lend a helping hand.

Startled by the sudden yet gentle hand gripping his chin, Sam was forced to lower his soda and look into earnest green eyes. 

Not one bit of hesitation clouding the irises.

“I could never regret you.” 

Sam wasn’t chained anymore.

Dean wasn’t afraid.

Up on the hood of a ‘67 Chevrolet Impala, their lips found each other softly, reenacting the very first one that sealed their fate long ago


End file.
